


if music be the food of love

by nothingbutfic



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4976407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/nothingbutfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment in Leadworth, set before Series 5. Amy asks Rory what his top 10 songs are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if music be the food of love

“What are your top 10 songs?”

Rory blinked, looking up from his phone. The question was unexpected, the interruption unasked for. But then most things were unasked for with Amy. While he was content to sit on a bench in an anorak over his scrubs on a ‘cigarette’ break (a vice he only pretended to have so he could sneak out and see his girlfriend), Amy was not soothed by his company or even the rather idyllic vista of the hospital grounds. So he just blinked and looked over at her, brain still ten seconds behind the question, and found that expertly manicured red nails were already plucking the phone from his grasp.

“Amy,” Rory said evenly, and tried not to chew on his lower lip. “I was _texting_ , there.” See? He wasn't fusty or old-fashioned at all. Amy used to say he was cranky before his time, but he could use the technology. Just like the youth.

“Boring texts to boring people,” Amy sing-songed in that accent of hers, and Rory huffed. The love of his life was not supposed to find him exceedingly boring, but then he probably shouldn’t have fallen head over heels for a tempestuous red-headed Scot with possible indicators of mild manic-depression and ongoing counselling needs stemming from the ‘Raggedy Man’ incident in her childhood.

Also, he probably shouldn’t have done that stint in psych nursing.

But now Amy had his phone (iPhone 3G thank you, even if he’d had to drive all the way to Gloucester to pick it up on launch day and god was he boring or what) and was flicking through his playlists with the sort of laser-like regard she saved mostly for things that annoyed or appalled her.

Which was quite a lot of things, really.

“Stereophonics?” she wondered, briefly flicking her eyes up to him to demonstrate the sheer level of her indignation: “What decade are you from?”

“’Phonics are cool,” Rory said simply, and folded his hands in his lap.

“They are _not_ ,” Amy chided, and didn’t look at him further. She even sounded like she might laugh.

“They’re _Welsh_ ,” Rory observed, after a pause, and wondered if she was too busy judging him to actually listen. “ _I’m_ Welsh.”

“You don’t _sound_ Welsh,” Amy told him, tucking a strand of red hair behind an ear, and peered at him like Welshness could be diagnosed through checking the dilation of his pupils. Squirming away a little, Rory tried to grab his phone but she was too quick, and clutched the phone to her stomach like a prize.

He sighed. “ _Williams_ , remember? And Wales is just-” he waved a hand in a direction he hoped was due West: “over there. Not my fault the English drew the border here in five hundred and whatever.” Borders were arbitrary things, if rather definite in their own way. Bit like Ms Pond.

Amy snorted, and bend over to continue exploring the apparently humiliating contents of his phone. “Oh yes, I’m a Williams, I eat leaks and sheep and go down the mines,” she teased, all lilting mockery.

“Your accent’s terrible.”

“No it’s _not_.” She nudged him gently in the ribs with an elbow and looked both amused and offended in the same moment, like someone daring to correct her was a rare, rare thing. (It was).

“Yes it _is_. As an actually ancestrally Welsh person, I say so.” And nudged back. “ _You_ can’t talk about weird accents in Leadworth, anyway.” Rory caught her grin for a second, the way it spread across her face and made her eyes sparkle even as she tried to restrain the giggle and knew he loved her yet again.

The smile was gone like the sun behind a cloud, because of course she couldn’t show too much or feel too deep. She was mercurial, marvellous Amy Pond, with only her wits and whatever outfit the kissogram industry demanded to keep her safe.

He was about to ask how her day had been when she all but squealed and then shoved his phone in his face.

“You have _Coldplay_!”

“…Yes?” Sometimes he really didn’t know what the right answer was.

“You have Coldplay.” She was giving him her very best ‘you have clearly violated human nature and I am stroppy about it’ face. And she took his phone back.

“Just the first two albums. Pre-Gwyneth.” He had some taste.

Amy huffed and pressed the off button, before sliding his phone into the chest pocket of his loose medical scrubs, and briefly pressed her hand against it. The phone pressed against his chest, a little cold, and her hand was just over his heart.

“Some of us have to go find less boring things to do,” she said, mouth hovering close to his, and didn’t kiss him. She probably didn’t want to smudge her lipstick, he thought. She was probably _working_. He didn't really like what she did, but he definitely didn't get a say in it.

Rory got up from the bench, looming over her, and tried to impress upon her this very simple truth: “Some of us have to go save people’s _lives_.” On reflection, he probably ruined the impressing part of it by wheeling his arms a little like a demented scarecrow.

“I can walk you home after your shift ends, if you’re scared,” she teased, and then Amy realised something: “I mean, I will be dressed like a policewoman.”

“I just like your legs in that skirt,” murmured Rory, and managed a lazy grin when she laughed and proceeded to hit him upside the head.

And he still wasn’t sure what his top 10 songs were.


End file.
